


Secret Santa

by agent_p_94



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Christmas Presents, Gift Exchange, Gift Giving, M/M, Mutual Pining, Office Party, Pining, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:40:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21929128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_p_94/pseuds/agent_p_94
Summary: When Heaven and Hell agree to an office-wide Secret Santa, Crowley is determined to draw Aziraphale. It's more difficult than he expected to convince everyone to trade...
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 77





	Secret Santa

“Last item on the agenda,” said Beelzebub for the fifth time. “Upstairs has invited us to join their…” They looked down at the impossibly messy handwriting on the endless scroll and somehow managed to express even worse-than-usual distaste. “Secret… Sin-time?”

“Upstairs wants us to sin with ‘em?” said Hastur, scratching his toad.

“Secret Santa, it’s Ssecret Ssanta,” said Crowley, pinching the bridge of his nose in a vain attempt to stave off a budding migraine. “I don’t know why you’re bringing this up, Beez, they invite us every year and you always set the invitation on fire.”

“It’s Lord Beelzebub to you, scum,” said Beelzebub, as Crowley yawned, “and I’ve had a change of heart.”

“Have you,” said Crowley, sitting up straighter than he had ever sat in a staff meeting.

“Demons don’t have hearts,” said Hastur.

Ignoring this as thoroughly as Crowley had ignored them, Beelzebub said, “It’s a prime opportunity to make their miserable lives even more miserable than usual. They’ll be expecting ‘fun’ and ‘good cheer.’ Instead, we’ll give them Hell.”

“Oh, will they be coming down to Hell for the exchange?” asked Hastur.

“Can someone kick him out?” said Crowley. “Beez, can you kick him out?”

“No,” said Beelzebub. “He has to be here for the draw.”

“The what?” said Ligur.

“Oh, Heaven,” said Crowley, “here comes the explanation. Good luck, Beez.” He put his head down on the rickety elementary school desk that had replaced the dentist’s chairs of the week before, and the splintered stools of the week before that, and proceeded to begin to snore.

A good hour and a half later, Beelzebub gave up halfway through an argument about whether Michael had actually miracled reindeer to fly and ended the discussion by turning Crowley’s desk into a swarm of bees.

“Ouch!” said Crowley, who had been far too entertained by the confusion over the necessity of chimneys to actually sleep. “What was that for?”

“It is time for the draw,” said Beelzebub. “As I’ve been incessantly reminded, these have been miracled against cheating. Each name is written only once, and you cannot change the name on your card.”

“Can we switch?” interrupted Crowley from Ligur’s desk.

“That’s my desk,” said Ligur.

“Raise your hand if you have a question, Crowley,” said Beelzebub.

“If you’re going to take my desk, you could at least sit in it,” said Ligur.

“Always the critic,” said Crowley, and propped his elbow on the desk for the minimum possible hand raising.

“As I was saying,” continued Beelzebub, “the names are all in here. You will come to the front and draw one name.”

Crowley let out a loud sigh, which Beelzebub pretended not to have heard.

“Do not immediately read the name out loud. Put your hand down, Hastur, we’ll find someone to read it for you later.”

“Oh, good,” said Hastur.

Beelzebub took their hat off their head and made a halfhearted gesture over it. Eight cards appeared inside. “I’ll demonstrate,” they said, pulling out a crisply folded index card. They wrinkled their nose, and the edges wilted. With the tips of one finger, they opened it and rolled their eyes. “Great,” they said. “Next.”

“That’s it?” said Ligur.

“What’d you expect, fireworks?” said Crowley.

“I’ll go next, then,” said Ligur, shuffling forward from their awkward stance by the door.

“Beeeeeeeeez,” said Crowley, waving his hand. “Beelzebub!”

Ligur picked out a card, opened it, and immediately looked at Hastur.

“Who’d you get, Ligur?” said Hastur.

“Can’t tell you,” said Ligur, hastily feeding the card to his chameleon. 

“Oh, right,” said Hastur, tapping the side of his nose. “The rules.”

Beelzebub accidentally shared an exasperated look with Crowley, who took advantage of the moment to wave his hand in front of Beelzebub’s face.

“Yes, alright, fine,” said Beelzebub, sharing an exasperated look with the ceiling, “what is it, Crowley?”

“Are the cards miracled against trading?” said Crowley.

“No, Crowley, the cards are not miracled against trading,” said Beelzebub.

“Oh, good,” said Crowley. “Wouldn’t want to end up with ol’ Hastur over there when there are angels to be tortured.” He winked at Beelzebub, who shuddered.

“Just get up here and pick a card,” said Beelzebub, shoving the hat at Crowley.

Crowley leaned so far over the desk that it almost tipped forward and stretched out to take a card. It was a mark of how much Beelzebub wanted to leave that they didn’t keep moving the hat backward until Crowley fell over. Crowley opened the card, licked his lips, and sat back in the chair so far that it almost tipped over the other direction.

“Great,” said Beelzebub. “We’re done. You can all get out now.”

“Isn’t Dagon playing?” said Crowley.

“Dagon is indisposed,” said Beelzebub, which meant Dagon was subduing riots.

“Too bad,” said Crowley, who might or might not have accidentally started the riots.

“Wait, I didn’t pick a card!” protested Hastur.

Beelzebub dug a card out of the hat and flung it at Hastur, hitting him smack on the toad. “Ow,” said Hastur, patting the toad.

“Now,” said Beelzebub, “Get. Out!”

\--------------------------------------------------------

“Did you hear,” said Michael, “that Beelzebub has accepted your invitation?”

Gabriel fumbled the last match and accidentally set fire to the wreath he’d just hung on the pearly gates. He extinguished it with a sharp wave of the hand and lit the final candle with a snap instead. “They what?”

“They’ve agreed to your Secret Santa,” said Michael.

“Oh.” Gabriel blinked. “Are you sure?”

“Read it yourself,” said Michael, pulling what looked like a soggy Kleenex from her pocket with a grimace.

“Er,” said Gabriel, squinting to make out the words that appeared to have been smudged on in blood, “is that a y or a dead cockroach?”

Michael snapped, and the Kleenex disintegrated into glittery dust. “They also came by this morning. They’ve already drawn names, apparently.”

“They have?” said Gabriel, who would have dropped something else, if he’d still been holding anything.

“Please tell me you didn’t put Sandalphon’s name in there,” said Michael. “We can’t have a repeat of last year.”

They paused for a moment to remember the previous year, when Sandalphon, misunderstanding the point, had kidnapped an actual Santa actor and hidden him in a closet for a month.

“I did not,” said Gabriel.

“Good,” said Michael. She shook her head. “I hope you don’t regret this, Gabriel.”

Gabriel shrugged. “It’s Christmas,” he said. “Can’t we spare some goodwill for Down There one day of the year?”

Michael raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, it was mostly Aziraphale’s idea,” Gabriel admitted.

“Of course it was,” said Michael, pursing her lips. “How do you solve a problem like Aziraphale…”

“Might as well catch a cloud and pin it down,” Gabriel said, earning a rare smile. “Don’t worry. We’ll do the exchange on neutral ground, and I’ll have one of our people scout out their gifts beforehand, to make sure there are no nasty surprises. It will all be entirely fine.”

\--------------------------------------------------------

“Hiya, Hastur,” said Crowley later, shuffling up to the demon in one of Hell’s interminable hallways. “How’s it hangin?”

“Oh, the hangings are going very well,” said Hastur. “We just started adding spikes to the ropes. Do you want to see?”

“No, no,” said Crowley quickly. “Actually, I wanted to ask how you’re getting on with your Secret Santa.”

“Oh.” Hastur looked away. “Dunno yet.”

Crowley patted Hastur’s shoulder sympathetically. “Beez didn’t find you anyone to read it yet, did they?”

Hastur scowled at him. “None of your business.”

Actually, Crowley considered it very much his business, as he was responsible for the disappearance and rerouting of several demons sent for just this purpose. He was a little impressed by the sheer quantity of requests Hastur had put in and rather suspected Ligur had been responsible for several as well. “You know,” said Crowley, “if you really can’t find anyone, maybe I could read it for you.”

Hastur’s toad shuffled backwards under his floppy toupee. “That’s not allowed,” he said sternly.

“Isn’t it?” said Crowley, spreading his hands with a grin. “I don’t remember Beelzebub saying that. All they said was that you couldn’t read it out loud.”

Hastur scratched his toad. “You mean I can’t read it out loud… but you can?”

“Exactly!” said Crowley, accidentally showing his teeth. “What d’you say?”

“Well, I guess it can’t hurt... “ said Hastur. He dug the card out of his pocket, flicked off a few maggots, and handed it to Crowley, who made a heroic effort not to grimace while flicking off a few more. “What does it say?” he asked, leaning in. “Oh, I hope I get an angel. I bet they’d hate waking up to a sock full of maggots.”

“Stocking,” Crowley corrected absently. The card, written in Gabriel’s annoyingly even script, said, “Ligur.” He felt a twinge of guilt.

“Stocking? Do you mean stocks?” said Hastur. “Ooh, after the party, do we get to put the angels in stocks?”

Any sense of guilt evaporated. “Uh, sorry to spoil your fun,” he said, starting to pat Hastur on the shoulder again, remembering the maggots, and pulling back, “but it appears you haven’t got an angel.”

“Oh, no,” said Hastur, drooping. “Oh, that’s too bad. Who is it?”

“Beelzebub,” Crowley improvised.

“Oh,” said Hastur. “Well, at least it’s not you.”

“I’m going to overlook that comment and offer you a very generous favor,” said Crowley, trying and failing to smudge the name on the card. “I happen to have an angel, and I’m willing to trade, for the right price.”

“What do you want, Crowley?” said Hastur.

“It’s not about what I want,” said Crowley. “It’s about what you want. Do you want to spoilate an angel’s favorite time of the year or not?”

“Is spoilate a word?” said Hastur.

“Which one of us can read?” said Crowley. “I mean, do you want to trade or not?”

Hastur squinted at Crowley with far more distrust than Crowley felt he deserved, given that he had only lied once in the conversation. “Who d’you have?”

“Uriel,” said Crowley, which happened to be true.

“Who’s that?” said Hastur.

“Er… Stern-looking, always frowning, very unpleasant,” said Crowley, realizing halfway through that this could describe any of them.

“So… an angel,” said Hastur.

“Yeah,” said Crowley. “Listen, Hastur, this offer won’t last forever. Swap or not?”

“What’s in it for you?” said Hastur.

What was in it for Crowley was something he had sworn never to tell a living soul, especially not a demonic one. “The Bentley is off-limits,” he said. “You can pop out of my television or mobile all you want, but I won’t have your toad sliming up my leather seats.”

“He’s not slimy!” said Hastur protectively.

“That’s your opinion,” said Crowley.

“Fine,” said Hastur, holding out his hand. “Swap with me.”

“And?” Crowley prompted, holding the card above his head.

“And I’ll stay out of your stupid car,” Hastur sighed.

“Thank you,” said Crowley, handing the card to Hastur. “She’s all yours. Knock yourself out.”

“Aren’t we supposed to knock them out?” said Hastur.

“Oh, for Satan’s - whatever,” said Crowley, and miracled himself away.

\--------------------------------------------------------

“I have an announcement to make,” said Gabriel to his gathered audience of two. “The demons have agreed to join Secret Santa.”

“They’ve what?” said Uriel.

“Oh, splendid!” said Aziraphale.

“Yes, I know,” said Gabriel to Uriel, “it’s an unexpected turn of events. But I believe we can make the best of it.”

“This is your fault for inviting them,” said Uriel.

“Technically, that wasn’t my idea,” said Gabriel with a meaningful look at Aziraphale.

“Oh, of course,” said Uriel to Aziraphale, “even better.”

“Hasn’t She charged us with spreading good cheer to everyone?” said Aziraphale, looking anything but contrite. 

“Every human,” said Uriel. “They gave up their chance at ‘good cheer’ when they fell.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Uriel, it’s Christmas,” said Aziraphale with an uncharacteristic flash of frustration. “If there’s one day to show a little kindness --”

“Regardless of whose fault it is - Aziraphale --” said Gabriel, “it’s too late. They’ve already agreed, and an angel does not go back on their word.”

They paused a moment to think about all the times each of them had gone back on their word.

“Well!” said Aziraphale, clapping his hands together, “shall we draw names, then? Oh, this will be fun!”

\--------------------------------------------------------

Uriel walked into her room, saw the demon, and immediately pulled out her claymore. “Begone, demon!” she shouted, leaping forward.

“Hey, there’s no need for all that!” said Crowley, holding up his hands in surrender without moving from the low sofa where he’d flung himself to wait. “I just popped by to say hello!”

Uriel stopped advancing but didn’t put down the sword. “Demons don’t just ‘say hello,’ ” she said. “Especially not you.”

"Ssseason’s greetings, then,” said Crowley, putting his hands behind his head and leaning back against the spotless white wall. “Happy holidays. Nice sword, by the way. S’that a claymore?”

“What’s it to you?” said Uriel.

“Haven’t seen one in centuries,” Crowley shrugged. “Does it catch fire, too, or is that only the other one’s, what’s-his-name, Ezrapill?”

“What do you want, Crawley?” said Uriel, rolling her eyes.

“I want to make you a proposition.” Crowley stood, making sure to move slowly and keep his eyes on the sword. “I happen to know you’ve drawn an angel for this Santa rubbish.”

“You mean you’ve cheated?”

“It’s not my fault if I hear things,” said Crowley. Also, Beelzebub hadn’t technically said they couldn’t miracle a peek at the cards, so it was hardly cheating.

“This isn’t helping your case,” said Uriel.

Crowley’s least-favorite-angel contest was typically a four-way tie for first, but Uriel was currently inching ahead. “I’m guessing,” he said, “and correct me if I’m getting ahead of myself here - but I’m guessing you’d rather have a demon.”

“Why?”

“Because,” said Crowley, leaning forward, “that gives you a chance to make their holiday anything but merry and bright.”

“What, exactly, are you suggesting?” said Uriel.

“Do I need to spell it out?” said Crowley. “Listen, given how we both know the exchange will end, this is your only chance for, ah, an unpleasant surprise. Do you really want to give that up?”

Uriel lowered the sword an inch. “What’s in it for you?”

“Same as you,” said Crowley. 

Uriel frowned. Crowley tried not to look like he was holding his breath. Being stabbed by a claymore in an angel’s bedroom was not the way he’d like to go out. 

“Fine,” said Uriel, holding out her hand. “Give me your card.”

Crowley let out the breath and tossed it over. Uriel caught it and opened it while holding the sword steady one-handed. “Ligur,” she read aloud, and smiled unpleasantly. She flicked her own card at Crowley. “Well, demon,” she said, “you may have done me a favor after all.”

“You’re welcome,” said Crowley. “And, ah - where’s the way out?”

\--------------------------------------------------------

“It’s ‘gay apparel,’ not ‘days of peril,’ dear,” said Aziraphale, tacking up the last of the lights above a shelf of Greek poetry and climbing down off the ladder. “How did you think one donned a day?”

“Dunno, the holidays are pretty perilous,” said Crowley, jingling one of the bells on the window. “Better interpretation, really.”

“Is it?” Aziraphale thought for a moment, then made a motion like pulling a shade down in front of him. His brown waistcoat transformed into a fuzzy red-and-green sweater with blinking lights in the shape of a tree in the front and a snowman on the back. He beamed at Crowley. “I think this is much more festive.”

“For Satan’s sake, turn it off,” said Crowley, covering his eyes. “You’re blinding me.”

“You’re wearing sunglasses,” Aziraphale said, but miracled himself into a reindeer sweater instead. “Better?”

Crowley cautiously peeked thorugh his fingers. The reindeer all had bells that jingled when Aziraphale moved. “Only slightly,” he said.

Aziraphale jingled over to the sofa and sat across from Crowley. A mug of cocoa and a bag of marshmallows appeared on the table between them. “So,” he said, with the air of someone holding a secret, “how’s your holiday season?”

“Deliriously festive,” said Crowley. “Nauseatingly merry. Imploding with goodwill.”

“I hear your lot are participating in Secret Santa,” said Aziraphale, adding one handful of marshmallows to his cocoa and another directly to his mouth. “It’s gotten my lot into a bit of a tizzy.”

“Has it?” said Crowley, pretending to yawn. “Can’t imagine why.”

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, “you haven’t put them up to it, have you?”

“Me?” said Crowley, not pretending to be surprised. “Why would I do that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Azirapahle, eyes twinkling over his cocoa. “Just a thought.”

Crowley tugged at his collar. “Who’ve you got, then?”

“Oh, I can’t tell you!” said Aziraphale, and winked. “It’s against the rules!”

“Oh, right,” said Crowley, whose entire being was trying and failing to prevent red from spreading over his cheeks. “How could I forget.”

“Anyway,” said Aziraphale, “I think it’s going to be jolly good fun.”

“You would,” Crowley muttered, as his ears turned pink.

\--------------------------------------------------------

“Beez,” said Crowley, waltzing into Beelzebub’s office without bothering to knock, “swap with me.”

“Go away,” said Beelzebub without looking up.

“C’mon,” said Crowley, collapsing in the seat on the opposite side of Beelzebub’s desk and sticking his feet on top of an intimidating stack of papers, “wait’ll you hear who I’ve got.”

“I don’t care,” said Beelzebub.

“It’s Gabriel,” said Crowley, leaning forward. “You know you want Gabriel.”

“Why would I want Gabriel?” said Beelzebub.

“You hate Gabriel!” said Crowley. “You’re always going on about how he thwarts you all the time. I mean, I hate him, too, but it’s more of a casual hatred. Like the way humans hate the DMV. I’m sure it’s nothing compared to the millenia of ill will you’ve built up.”

Beelzebub slammed down their pen on the page in front of them. “You’re not going to go away until I swap, are you?”

“Nope!” said Crowley cheerily.

“I really should have made it against the rules,” said Beelzebub.

“Probably!” said Crowley. “Anyway, too late now. Swap or not?”

“If I swap with you, will you go away?” said Beelzebub.

“Eh, no promises,” said Crowley.

“Crowley…”

“Alright, alright,” said Crowley hastily, “if you swap with me, I won’t bother you until the end of Secret Santa.”

“And the month of January,” said Beelzebub.

“The entire month of January?” said Crowley.

“It will help a lot with my resolution not to discorporate you,” said Beelzebub.

“Okay, January too, then,” said Crowley. “Here you go.” He handed over his card and accepted Beelzebub’s in return. Humming a Christmas carol in a minor key, he unfolded it. The humming cut off abruptly. “Beelzebub?” he read aloud. “You’ve got yourself?”

“Yeah,” said Beelzebub, who’d gone back to their papers.

“But - but you had Aziraphale!” said Crowley.

“You said it yourself,” said Beelzebub. “Swapping’s allowed.”

“So you swapped for yourself?”

Beelzebub shrugged. “Better than getting drawn by an angel.”

“What did you think an angel was going to do?” said Crowley, and then remembered Uriel’s claymore. “Which angel had you, anyway?”

“Didn’t you juzzzt promise to leave me alone?” said Beelzebub, a menacing swarm of bees appearing behind their head.

“Ah, right, yes,” said Crowley, “I was just leaving.”

\--------------------------------------------------------

“Who’ve you got, Ligur?” said Hastur.

“Can’t tell you,” said Ligur, refusing to meet Hastur’s eyes.

“At least tell me if it’s an angel or a demon,” said Hastur.

Ligur thought about this for a moment and then, deciding it wouldn’t do any harm, said, “Demon.”

“Ooh, that’s too bad,” said Hastur. “I had a demon too, to start, but Crowley let me swap.”

“Crowley let you?” said Ligur.

Hastur nodded. “Bastard had a good idea, for once.”

“He’s up to something,” said Ligur. His chameleon cycled through orange, red, and yellow in agreement.

“He got a fair trade for it,” said Hastur. “Promised I’d stay out of his Bentley. Didn’t say for how long, though, so I figure he’ll forget in a couple months.”

He grinned demonically. Ligur grinned back. “That was smart, Hastur,” he said. “Maybe you did get the better of him.”

“Oh, definitely,” said Hastur. “And I get to torture an angel. This is shaping up to be a very terrible Christmas.”

\--------------------------------------------------------

“Hey, Hastur,” said Crowley, slightly out of breath, “there you are. Been looking all over.”

“I’m not changing the terms of our agreement,” said Hastur.

“Wouldn’t ask you to,” said Crowley. “I wanted to thank you, actually.”

Hastur blinked. “What for?”

“The swap,” said Crowley. “At first, I was disappointed not to have an angel. Ruin their Christmas and all that. But then I got to thinking, maybe it’s better to have Beelzebub. Gives me a chance to really impress them, y’know?”

“To what?” said Hastur.

“Well,” said Crowley, “we both know Beelzebub’s a bit, er, unapproachable. But if I give them a really nice gift - a boiling pit of oil, or a free clearout of those minotaurs on level seven - maybe they’ll see me in a different light. Maybe they’ll even consider me for that upcoming promotion.”

“The upcoming what?” said Hastur.

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” Crowley dropped his voice. “There’s an open position at the top. Political jockeying on the Dark Council. They’re saying one of us might be up for it.”

“You’re not serious,” said Hastur.

“Oh, I am,” said Crowley. “Anyway, that’s why I wanted to thank you. For being such a pal.” He slapped Hastur on the shoulder and turned to go.

“Wait!” said Hastur.

Crowley paused and turned back, trying not to smile. “Yeah?”

“Swap back,” said Hastur.

“What?” said Crowley, pretending to be offended. “Why would I do that?”

“I’ll stay out of your Bentley for a year,” said Hastur. “For five years.”

“I don’t know, Hastur,” said Crowley. “This is too good a chance to pass up.”

“A decade!” said Hastur desperately. “Is that long enough?”

Crowley grimaced. “It’s tempting,” he said. “But I don’t know why you want to do this now. Didn’t you have grand plans for your angelic torture?”

“There’s always next year,” said Hastur.

Crowley shrugged. “Fair enough.” He pulled the card out of his pocket and held it out to Hastur. “Here you go, then.”

Hastur grabbed it and turned without thanking him. “You’re welcome!” called Crowley down the hallway.

\--------------------------------------------------------

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” said Gabriel, “who did you draw?”

“Are you asking me to break one of the few rules of this engagement?” said Michael.

“Of course not,” said Gabriel. “My mistake.”

Michael sighed. “I drew Crowley,” she said in distaste. “I’ve no idea what to do. I’d rather not get him anything at all, dreadful thing.”

“Uriel’s been saying she’s planning to give her demon an unpleasant surprise,” said Gabriel. “You could, ah, consider something in the same vein.”

Michael sniffed. “Seems inelegant,” she said. “I’m not sure I quite condone that level of hostility on Christmas. She might not approve.”

“Maybe you could ask Aziraphale,” said Gabriel. “He’s been thwarting Crowley long enough. He’s got to have some idea of his habits by now.”

“Yes, perhaps too good of an idea,” said Michael. She sighed and straightened her shoulders. “Anyway, it’s not your concern. I’m sure you have more than enough to be getting on with.”

\--------------------------------------------------------

“Aziraphale,” said Crowley, ducking under the garlands that kept multiplying in the bookshop, “can I ask you a favor?”

“Anything,” said Aziraphale from the back. “Unless it’s about Wales. You know I don’t do Wales in the winter. Or Australia.”

“It’s not about Wales,” said Crowley. “It’s about Secret Santa.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale’s beaming face popped out from behind a bookshelf. “Is it? What are those?”

“These? Er, nothing,” said Crowley, who had picked up some bourbon marshmallows on a whim and now regretted it deeply.

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, “they’re marshmallows! How thoughtful.”

“Eh, I wouldn’t use that word, exactly,” said Crowley, shifting from foot to foot.

Aziraphale snatched the bag from him and let out a little gasp. “Bourbon marshmallows? Oh, dear, you shouldn’t have.”

“Ngk,” said Crowley.

“Now,” said Aziraphale, miracling some cocoa for the marshmallows, “what did you want to ask me?”

Crowley cleared his throat. “Right,” he said. “Wanted to ask. Would you swap with me?”

“Swap with you?” said Aziraphale. “My dear fellow, isn’t that against the rules?”

“No!” said Crowley.

Aziraphale frowned. “Are you sure?”

“I specifically asked,” said Crowley.

“Hm,” said Aziraphale doubtfully. “Well, if you say so. But why would you want to switch?”

“I’ve got Uriel,” said Crowley. “I can’t stand Uriel.”

“Well, I’ve got Michael, and you can’t stand her, either,” said Aziraphale.

“Can you?” said Crowley. “I mean, I can stand Michael slightly more than Uriel. Did you know she tried to run me through with a claymore the other day?”

Aziraphale choked on a marshmallow. “What for?”

“No idea,” said Crowley. He miracled himself a mug with the usual ratio of cocoa-to-Baileys reversed. “Anyway, I’d rather not mess with that again. At least Michael’s never personally attempted murder.”

“I suppose that’s true,” said Aziraphale. “Well, it’s all the same to me, so if it really means something to you…”

“It would,” said Crowley quickly.

Aziraphale pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it over. “Here you go, then,” he said.

Crowley snatched the card with the minimum amount of skin-to-skin contact. “Thanks,” he said. “Enjoy the marshmallows.”

\--------------------------------------------------------

“Riot’s all clear,” said Dagon, collapsing with a sigh into the chair in front of Beelzebub’s desk. Her face and arms were covered with scratches oozing, alternately, blood, slime, and an unidentifiable purple substance. “Should be good for another three months or so.”

“Good,” said Beelzebub.

Dagon pulled a grubby handkerchief from her pocket and started scrubbing off the purple goop. “Anything interesting going on here?”

“No,” said Beelzebub. “Just Secret Santa.”

“Ooh, Secret Santa!” said Dagon, stopping in the middle of swatting a small fire that had started near her elbow. “Is it too late to join? That riot gave me some really demonic ideas for a few of those angels.”

Beelzebub thought for a second. “You could have yourself.”

“Isn’t the point to have someone else?” said Dagon.

“Everyone says that,” grumbled Beelzebub. “If you can figure out who has me, I’ll swap with you for Gabriel.”

“Swap with you for yourself?” said Dagon.

“Yeah,” said Beelzebub, as though it should have been obvious.

Dagon decided not to argue this point. “Do you know who has you?”

“Crowley did,” said Beelzebub, “but he’zzz up to something.”

Dagon nodded as though this was the most natural thing in the world, which it generally was. “So he’s swapped you away.”

“Probably.” Beelzebub pulled a page toward them pointedly. Dagon, taking the hint, stood up.

“Bah, humbug,” she said, heading out the door to take a nice shower in boiling oil.

“Bah, humbug,” said Beelzebub with a wave.

\--------------------------------------------------------

“What are you doing here?” Gabriel snapped at Crowley, who was lounging on a park bench in a manner that insulted its purpose of construction.

Crowley half-shrugged at the greenery around them. “S’a park,” he said. “S’a nice day. S’allowed, innit?”

Gabriel ground his teeth and tightened the sweatband around his forehead. “Demons don’t relax. You must be up to something.”

“So ssuspiciousss.” Crowley gestured to the other side of the bench. “Take a seat. Kick back for a minute.”

“I’m not going to ‘kick back’ with a demon,” said Gabriel, trying and failing to look intimidating in his jogging shorts. 

“Your loss,” said Crowley with another shrug. “Ssay, while you’re here - you know Michael, don’t you? What d’you think she’d hate more - a barrelful of snakes, or one of those long white robes with an ink splotch she can’t get out?”

Gabriel took one semi-threatening step forward. “How dare you.”

Instead of flinching, Crowley grinned, showing a mouthful of pointed teeth. “You invited us.”

“And I never will again,” said Gabriel. He took off the bone-dry sweatband and stowed it in his pocket. “Doing this to Uriel would be one thing, but Michael? That’s going too far.”

“Is it?” said Crowley. “Demons aren’t great with boundariesss.”

Gabriel frowned. He couldn’t allow Michael to be embarrassed in front of Heaven and Hell, especially for something that was his fault. He’d be stuck on desk duty for the next fifty years. He pulled his own card out of his pocket. “What about this,” he said, “swap with me.”

“Mmmm… No,” said Crowley, who wasn’t even looking at Gabriel anymore.

“You haven’t even heard who I have,” said Gabriel.

“Not interested.”

“It’s Aziraphale,” said Gabriel. “You can still torture an angel. Just… not Michael.”

Crowley swung his head back towards Gabriel. “You really care about her, don’t you?” he said with a smirk. “Something brewing I should know about?”

“No!” said Gabriel, offended by the very suggestion. “She’s my manager!”

“Ohh, I see - angling for the promotion, then.”

“Look, will you switch with me or not?” said Gabriel. “I’ll call Aziraphale off the thwarting for a full month.”

“Only one?” Crowley said. “No chance.”

“Six, then,” said Gabriel, aware he was beginning to appear desperate. “I can’t do more than that without drawing suspicion.”

Crowley tipped his head back and sighed loudly at the cloudless sky overhead. “Fine,” he said, holding out a hand. “If it means sso much to you.”

Gabriel resisted thanking the demon as he swapped the cards. “See you round, then!” called Crowley as Gabriel jogged off.

“I hope not,” muttered Gabriel.

\--------------------------------------------------------

“Hi guys!” said Sandalphon cheerily, shuffling into the break room with light-up antler ears and a singing necklace. “Everyone ready for Christmas?”

“Oh, Lord,” said Uriel in an undertone to Michael.

Michael gave Uriel a look that was half-disapproval, half-agreement. “Yes, Sandalphon, we are quite ready,” she said.

“Great!” 

Sandalphon stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth with a vapid grin. They all waited for him to leave. When it became clear he had no such intention, Michael said, “Anything else, Sandalphon?”

“Oh, nothing!” said Sandalphon. “Well, except, I was thinking, you know, maybe we should have an office Christmas party!” No one said anything to stop him, so he barrelled on. “We could even do Secret Santa again, like last year! Wouldn’t that be fun?”

Uriel and Michael exchanged another look. “That’s quite a nice idea, Sandalphon,” said Michael, “but after last year, we all agreed we might need a break.”

“A break?” said Sandalphon. “A break from Christmas?”

“No, of course not.” Michael glanced at Uriel for support.

“You locked a human in a closet for a month,” Uriel said.

“Ah.” Sandalphon’s face fell. “I did apologize for that. And I know the rules for this year!”

Uriel rolled her eyes. “We’re not doing Secret Santa, Sandalphon.”

“If you’d like to have an office party, you’re more than welcome to plan one,” said Michael. “But I must agree with Uriel on the Secret Santa.”

“Well, alright,” said Sandalphon, his antlers drooping. “Maybe next year.”

\--------------------------------------------------------

“Hey, Ligur,” said Crowley, peeling himself away from the blood-soaked wall and checking over both shoulders, “got a favor to ask.”

“What do you want, Crowley?” said Ligur without breaking his stride.

“It’s about this Ssecret Ssanta,” said Crowley. “I drew an angel --”

“After swapping how many times?”

“-- and I’ve got a really awful present for him,” said Crowley, ignoring Ligur’s question, “but I’m afraid it’s, er, a bit much. Worried about retribution, if you know what I mean.”

Ligur stared at him in a manner that suggested he did not.

Crowley stuck his hands in his pockets and swayed back and forth for a second before letting out a breath. “See, I got him a, er…” He checked over his shoulder again and then leaned in to whisper to Ligur, “A Bible.”

“Why’d you do that?” said Ligur, so loudly that Crowley was forced to jump back.

“No, listen,” said Crowley, “I’ve swapped all the ‘thou shalts’ with…”

He leaned in again and said a series of phrases that made Ligur’s eyebrows climb farther and farther up his forehead until his chameleon was forced to scramble back to make room.

“Well,” said Ligur, “that’s certainly demonic.”

“Yeah,” said Crowley. “Maybe too demonic.” He shuffled back and forth. “I’m, er, already in a bit of trouble Upstairs, for that mess with the dial-up. I’m afraid this might actually tip Azir-whasit over the edge to actually discorporating me.”

“Urgh,” said Ligur.

“Exactly,” said Crowley. “So what d’you say? Can I tell everyone you gave it to him?”

“So I can get discorporated?” said Ligur. “No.”

“Oh, they wouldn’t discorporate you,” said Crowley. “Ziziputin hasn’t got anything against you, personally. Has he?”

“I met him once,” said Ligur. “He seemed… round.”

“Yep, that’s him,” said Crowley, secretly moving up Ligur on his least-favorite-demons list, which was also a four-way tie for last. “This could work out well for you, too, y’know. Forgive me for presuming, but you’ve got Hastur, haven’t you?”

Ligur checked up and down the hallway. “No,” he said.

“Alright,” said Crowley, “but if you’re trying to cover your tracks, too, this is the best way for both of us.”

Ligur scowled and dug into his pocket for his card.

“No, no, you don’t actually have to give it to me,” said Crowley. “You just have to tell people you have. Throw them off the scent.”

Ligur grunted and stowed the card away again.

“Thanks, Ligur,” said Crowley, saluting the demon. “You’re a real pal.”

\--------------------------------------------------------

The day of the party dawned bright and clear. Four angels and five demons assembled on opposite sides of a gazebo strung with red-and-green tinsel. On the demons’ side, the tinsel was already drooping and starting to smell. Gabriel, Aziraphale, Dagon, and Hastur had dressed for the occasion in variously obnoxious Christmas sweaters. Michael wore a poinsettia in her buttonhole, and Uriel was clutching a candy cane like she was about to stab someone with it. Someone had wrestled Ligur’s chameleon into a tiny striped scarf. Beelzebub refused to make any concessions to the occasion, and Crowley, though he appeared to have the same philosophy, was secretly wearing red-and-green tartan socks.

Gabriel stepped forward and gestured to the table across the middle of the gazebo, where nine presents in varying wrappings were arrayed across a peppermint-patterened tablecloth. “Okay!” he said. “We all know why we’re here. We’re… happy… to have participation from both sides of the aisle this Christmas, in the true spirit of the season. The presents are all labelled in the middle, so… let’s get started!”

“Much shorter speech than last year,” said Aziraphale to the nearest angel, who, unfortunately, was Michael. Fortunately, Crowley also heard, and shot him a hint of a smile.

After a few minutes of awkward silence, Beelzebub stepped forward, grabbed the newspaper-wrapped bundle with “Beelzebub” scrawled across it in smudged Sharpie, and ripped open the paper to reveal a seven-colored pen where all the colors were black. “Great,” they said in a monotone. “A new pen. Thanks, me.” They stepped back, clicking the pen, whose noise had been miracled even louder and more annoying than usual. “Next.”

This broke everyone’s hestitation, and the remaining eight of them stepped forward at once. Gabriel unstuck peeling masking tape with great trepidation and immediately jumped back as five live fish fell out of the wrapping and started flopping around on the floor. Hastur tugged a tiny hand-knit muffler from a cigarette case and broke into a wide grin (“He’s had the worst colds this year, curse ‘em, little bit o’warmth’ll do him good”). He then sidled over to Dagon, who was staring at a jar of mace, and started explaning in great and increasingly confused depth how the mace was actually poisoned and never-ending and meant to keep down the riots. To Hastur’s credit, Dagon did look mildly impressed, although it had been mostly Ligur’s idea.

Ligur unwrapped a militarily creased box and dropped it to clap his hands over his ears as the music of the heavenly hosts rang out from a jewel-encrusted music box. “Shut it off, shut it off!” yelled Ligur as the demons shrieked in pain. A smile quirked at the corners of Uriel’s mouth as she made no move to save them. Finally, Aziraphale marched over and closed the music box, restoring some order to the occasion.

Uriel herself opened a neatly wrapped scabbard for her claymore, inscribed with selected quotations on smiting which Uriel quoted on a semi-regular basis. She saw Aziraphale watching her anxiously and gave a sharp nod as the closest thing to approval she was willing to bestow. Aziraphale beamed and clapped his hands together.

Crowley tossed the tissue paper out of a minimalist white bag and pulled out a single red delicious apple. He stared at it for a moment before tossing it over his shoulder into the snow. Across the room, Michael sniffed.

Michael’s present was a Sound of Music record, signed by the “Original Cast,” although the first name was clearly a crossed-out Gabriel. “Thank you,” said Michael stiffly, as though the words gave her pain coming out.

“You’re welcome!” said Gabriel with two thumbs-up.

There was one present left on the table, which looked like it had been wrapped and unwrapped several times already. It had ended up in brown bucher paper tied with a red string that had sort of collapsed into a bow. Aziraphale picked up the package and untied the string with great care. Across the gazebo, Crowley leaned back on the railing and tried very hard to look like he wasn’t paying attention. Aziraphale folded back the paper and carefully lifted out an ancient leather-bound volume. He scanned the title and let out a little gasp. “Oh! How lovely!” he said, his whole face lighting up. He scanned the gazebo for Crowley and beamed at him. Crowley whipped his neck away so quickly that he almost fell backwards out of the gazebo.

“He doesn’t look very upset,” said Ligur.

“What?” said Crowley, tugging at his collar. “Oh - hasn’t read it yet, has he?”

“I guess not...” said Ligur with a suspicious squint.

“You know, if you make that face long enough, it’ll get stuck.” Crowley unraveled himself from the railing, slapped Ligur on the back, and swaggered off, whistling a Christmas carol.

“Oh-kay!” said Gabriel, clapping several times to bring the gazebo to order. “I believe this concludes this year’s Secret Santa! I hope everyone has, er, a very merry Christmas, and… goodbye.”

“Is that it?” said Aziraphale.

“Yes, that’s it,” said Gabriel, “thank goodness.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, “only, last year we had gingerbread…”

\--------------------------------------------------------

Later that evening, after miracling himself a batch of gingerbread, Aziraphale settled himself into his most comfortable chair and opened the “Thou Shalt” Bible for an evening of amusement. A few pages into Exodus, the door jingled, and Crowley sauntered in. “My dear fellow!” said Aziraphale, beaming at him over the Ten Commandments. “A very merry Christmas to you!”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Crowley, throwing himself onto the sofa and propping his legs on a stack of Italian cookbooks. “Humbug, and all that.”

“I’m glad you came by so I could thank you properly,” said Aziraphale. “Wherever did you find this? I’ve been looking for ages!”

He had; it had been on his wish list for at least a century, but he hadn’t been able to convince the original owner to part with it. Crowley’s methods, however, were… more direct. “Around,” said Crowley vaguely.

“And it’s certainly over the ten-dollar limit,” Aziraphale scolded.”

“It wasn’t,” said Crowley, “...eventually. Besides,” he added, remembering himself, “s’not from me. S’from Ligur. Ask ‘im yourself.”

“Ah. I see,” said Aziraphale knowingly. He turned another page of the Bible and snickered at the rewrites to Leviticus. “Well, whoever it’s from, it’s certainly very nice.”

“Ngk,” said Crowley, sinking further into the sofa.

“Oh! I’ve almost forgot!” Aziraphale clapped the book closed and stood up with sudden purpose. “I’ve gotten you something as well!”

“You wot?” said Crowley, half-extricating himself from the cushions.

“One moment,” said Aziraphale, puttering off between the shelves and emerging a minute later with a red-wrapped package. He perched on the edge of his chair and watched Crowley anxiously.

“You - you got me a present?” said Crowley, holding it like he expected it to bite him.

“Of course,” said Aziraphale. “It’s Christmas!”

“But your Ssecret Ssanta was Uriel,” said Crowley dumbly.

“Well, yes,” said Aziraphale, “but you’re allowed to get presents for other people, too.”

“...Are you?” said Crowley, mentally kicking himself for forgetting this significantly easier path.

“Yes, of course!” said Aziraphale. “You’re supposed to get presents for your f-friends.”

“Nnrgh,” said Crowley, going bright red.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Open it, will you?”

Crowley blinked at the package, and the wrapping opened itself, revealing a houseplant in a tartan-patterned pot. “Oh, sorry,” said Aziraphale, snapping the tartan back to brown. “Old habit.”

Crowley turned the houseplant back and forth. “It’s a plant,” he said unnecessarily.

“Well, yes,” said Aziraphale, going pink. “I - I don’t know if your lot really like plants, but, er, well, your apartment’s so, er, modern - I thought it could use a bit of cheer.”

Crowley blinked several times at the plant behind his sunglasses. “Thanks,” he said gruffly. “You didn’t - well. Yeah. It’s - thanks.”

They both studied their feet for a second.

“Well!” said Aziraphale with forced brightness, jumping up. “Would you like some cocoa? I was just heating up some milk.”

“Urgh,” said Crowley, miracling the plant away safely to the front room in his apartment, where it could be seen from all rooms at once. “I’d take some Bailey’s.”

“Bailey’s it is,” said Aziraphale. He tossed Crowley the bourbon marshmallows as well. “Oh, I just love Christmas, don’t you?”

“Nnk,” said Crowley, which was as close as he could come to wholeheartedly agreeing.


End file.
